He and Mrs. Scarlatti had been through a lot together, he would have said, if asked―but what exactly? She had had a bad husband (a matter of luck, she made it seem, like a bad bottle of wine) and ditched him; she had lost her only son, Ezra's age, during the Korean War. But both these events she had suffered alone, before her partnership with Ezra began. And Ezra himself: well, he had not actually been through anything yet. He was twenty-five years old and still without wife or children, still living at home with his mother. What he and Mrs. Scarlatti had survived, it appeared, was year after year of standing still. Her life that had slid off somewhere in the past, his that kept delaying its arrival―they'd combined, they held each other up in empty space.
Anne Tyler, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant
Hoy no tengo ganas de escribir.
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